


Sleeve

by agnes_writes



Series: hiwaga [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Horror, Murder Mystery, Urban Legends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnes_writes/pseuds/agnes_writes
Summary: A gruesomely deformed corpse sparks an urban legend that is passed down for decades.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: hiwaga [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006926
Kudos: 1





	Sleeve

** February 10, 1953 - 7:47 AM **

They say dead men told no tales.

But this one told of a murder.

Nervous murmurs cut through the tranquil early Tuesday morning as a crowd forms on the side of a normally abandoned road, craning their necks for a better look. The fetid stench of decaying flesh pierced through the cool February air, leaving those nearest gagging as the smell of death burrows itself deeply into the crevices of their minds.

From afar, the form was slumped against the tree's trunk, looking almost asleep—that was the reason it took so long for them to notice, after all. Shadows danced across the body as the pale sunlight pierces through the twisting branches of the towering tree, obscuring what little features the crowd could make out from view.

It was for the best, all things considered. Most people would not be able to handle seeing the colonies of maggots wriggling in its eye sockets or leaking from its mouth, the strays burrowing themselves into what little muscle it had left on its extremities, nor the dried blood that stained its once stark white polo that now clung to its pallid skin. They certainly would not be able to stomach the liquefying intestines that peaked from under the cloth, nor the rats that took to gnawing away at his fingers and toes for their dinner. Death was not the pretty picture their Bibles say it is, not the eternal salvation nor angel choirs they were promised but perhaps none of them were ready to face that fact head-on, especially through the rotting, deformed corpse of what used to be a handsome young man.

I watch as the crowd pushes forward, as close as they could behind the bright yellow tape, the siren call of curiosity too compelling to ignore despite their disgust.

_Miguel Del Rosario_ , _age 19,_ _university student_ , the detectives would write on their notes.

_So young, so innocent,_ the public would say. _Such a gruesome way to die._

It was not as if he did not deserve it.

My eyes scan across the crowd, the murmurs now becoming steadier, an undercurrent of tension leaving them restlessly squirming and I catch two familiar figures in the corner of my vision.

On the edge of the yellow tape stood a man I had seen before, his raven hair lined with silver shining in the early morning sun, his tired eyes watching intently as the detectives take photos of the scene. His mouth was wrought in a tight line, worry lines making him look older than he truly is. On his broad shoulders sat a young lady's head. They wear matching expressions of repulsion as one of the officers touch the body with their gloved hands. The movement sends a number of squirming maggots falling, and a shudder of disgust wracks through the detective. The lady buries her face into the man's neck, her fist balled tightly against her side.

She whispers something in his ear, and he nods, eyes stuck to the body.

I want to smile at the irony—it's a private little joke. The guilty always come back to the scene of the crime.

I fix my gaze on her, Celeste, clinging to her father's side, waiting for the body to be carted off the scene. Her fists clenched and unclenched, jaw tight and eyes blazing as the officers check on the corpse.

As if feeling the burning weight of my stare, her eyes flit to mine. I smile, giving a tiny wave as I watch the color leave her face and gasp. She pulls on her father's sleeves, panicked, urging him to look in my direction, to look at _me_ , but I turn away before he does.

The fear in her eyes is familiar. It was the same look she had two nights ago when Miguel del Rosario lay on the ground bleeding, intestines hanging from his open stomach.

The memory almost makes me grin; it was most definitely an _interesting_ night for all of us.

Celeste and Miguel had sat in her parked car, lips locked, his hands frantically touching her chest, their only source of light the dim, orange street lamps that lined the edge of the sidewalk. He leans heavily into her, and I look away, not wanting to see the show they may put on, or how far he manages to get.

He moans her name as she straddles him on his lap, undoing his buttons one by one, arching her back to accommodate his kisses.

Then, she reaches behind him. The car door opens, and Celeste shoves him out.

Miguel tumbles to the grass with a heavy thud, and I approach slowly, seeing the fury blazing in Celeste's eyes as she loomed over him.

“What the fuck—” he starts to say, attempting to sit up, but Celeste grabs the front of his shirt in her balled fists. I knew that expression, I had worn it myself for a long time—it was the face of rage; of a woman scorned.

“You—you are a demon,” she snarls in his face, voice trembling.

“What?”

“Paula—you...” Celeste heaves, tears falling from her face.

“Paula? What about her? We had a nice time—she tried to put up a fight but I wore her down eventua—”

The slap echoes across the empty street. Slow, deliberate footsteps sounded closer and closer to Miguel.

“So you did do it.”

I fix my stare at him as he turns around.

“You did that to my sister.”

“Leonor?” A smug smile forms on his lips, an eyebrow raised. Anger flickers in my chest, getting stronger. How can he talk so casually about ruining a woman's life?

“So, is this your plan, you two? Bring me out to the supposedly haunted street and try to spook me? Smart—no one ever comes by here at night. But you know I'm not afraid of some shitty old ghost story.”

Celeste snarls at him, “Paula trusted you. She said you promised—”

“And what about it?” Miguel sighs, giving her a condescending look.

I tilt my head calmly, eyebrows scrunching, watching for his next move.

“Paula is an angel.” The voice that comes out is calm, steady. Steely cold.

“You can't expect me to wait. A man has needs. Besides, your sister clearly wanted it—”

A flash of silver, one he clearly was not expecting, and then red. His hand flies to his cheek as the thick red dripped from the fresh cut.

“What the fuck? Leonor, you absolute bitch—” he sputters, scrambling to his feet, only for his hands to be restrained by a man from behind the tree. Lito nods at his daughter, and Celeste grabs hold of his legs. The glint of the knife reflects the mix of the dim moonlight and streetlights.

“And now you brought Counselor Lito?” Miguel laughs, “You're just going to let your daddy do your dirty work, Celeste? Why do you even care about Paula?”

He is taunting Celeste, his smug grin proof of it. My lips curl into a sneer.

I draw closer, making sure he sees my expression clear as day, and his breath hitches, eyes widening with terror.

“Wh-what the fuck? _What_? Is this some sort of a sick joke, Leonor? Wh—” His voice is trembling now, skin clammy and pale. I grin with satisfaction.

“Be quiet, Miguel.”

He doesn't listen, now actively thrashing against Lito and Celeste's hold on him. He grabs for Celeste's arm, ripping her dress sleeve, but Lito clamps down on his hands, holding him tightly in place.

A flash of doubt overtakes Celeste's face. Her grip loosens slightly.

“Leonor, wait. Maybe we shouldn't—”

The blade pauses mid-air. Tension crackles through the air.

“Tell me, Celeste. What do you feel for Paula?” The question is loaded, heavy, and Celeste blinks. Miguel tries to break free, but Lito's eyes flash, and he kicks him to his knees.

“I love her, you know that, of all people—”

“You don't hear her crying at night. You don't hear her scratching at her arms, like she's trying to get away from something. But I do. You know how she looks when she wakes up? She has this... fear in her eyes. Like she's trapped.”

Celeste gulps, pinpricks of tears coming back to her eyes.

“And it's because of him. If you truly love her...”

“I do, Leonor, shit, I do—” Celeste is shaking her head, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“This was your idea, too. You even have Tito Lito in on it, and now you're saying we should back down?”

Miguel grunts weakly, pale and struggling as I caught his eye yet again. His entire figure is shaking as he bites back a scream.

Celeste takes a short breath, and nods. “Fine.”

Lito hauls Miguel back to his feet, cold sweat now glistening on his forehead. When Celeste takes hold of his legs, her grip is firm and sure.

“This is for my sister.”

The knife plunges into his gut with ease—once, twice, three times. The blade twists in his gut and Miguel howls in pain, body twisting and jerking as the two keep him in place. His insides now leak, the blood turning his white shirt into dark red.

Miguel stops fighting, and Celeste and Lito let him fall to the dry grass, barely breathing, eyes hazy and glassy with pain.

“That takes care of that.”

Celeste's eyes widen in horror as she takes in the damage, but Lito clamps a hand down on her shoulder.

“We burn everything. I stayed in late at the barangay hall, Celeste was asleep at home and Leonor, you were...”

“I was attending to Paula. She's been getting a lot of nightmares these days, like I said.”

Lito nods, his lips in a thin line. He nods toward the body, a silent order to help him move it.

The sound of rubber on asphalt makes them stiffen. Lito swears, dropping the almost-dead form back to the ground.

“Get in the car!”

“But what about—” Celeste starts, but Lito grabs her arm and pulls her to their vehicle.

“Leonor!” she screams.

“I'll take care of him.”

“It's better than finding us anywhere near it. With our luck, they'll think he's just some passed-out drunk until morning.” Lito tells Celeste, jump starting the car. The engine hums to life, and Lito floors on the gas.

Their hurried footsteps and headlights fade into silence.

I watch as Miguel's barely seeing eyes find mine, and my lips turn upward at his fear. I button up his shirt, hiding his exposed organs under it and sit him upright, his tiny gasps of pain giving me a creeping satisfaction.

“The punishment fits the crime,” I whisper in his ear as the light behind his eyes fade. If Paula lives in fear, then he should certainly die with it.

The detective's grunt of frustration is enough to catch my—and the people's—attention. Kneeling down next to Miguel, he grabs his closed hand and starts to pry it open.

The crowd is holding its breath as he tries to unclench the corpse's fist. It finally gives, its fingers limp as a cloth falls—a white dress sleeve, to be exact.

A number of gasps ring out in the crowd, spiraling into a frenzy of alarmed murmurs.

_“Is that—”_

_“Weren't there rumors?”_

_“Lolo always said this place was eerie—”_

_“Balete trees always carried spirits, I told you! Inay told me this story—”_

_“There was a woman that died from a hit-and-run here, wasn't there?”_

_“They say she roamed around here at night but I didn't believe—”_

_“Ghosts can't hurt people, can they?”_

_“I thought she only haunted drivers!”_

_“Vengeful spirits are dangerous, Tita Nena said—”_

**_“It's the white lady, isn't it?”_ **

A camera flashes, and my eyes turn to the source of the light—a man is frantically taking notes, much to the officers' dismay. The journalist's eyes hungrily watches the detective pick up the cloth gingerly, his writing now feverish. A story that will make the front page.

The murmurs grow even louder.

“We should warn Leonor,” I hear Lito say. “She should know. So should Paula. Have you talked to her?”

“I did. She's still... I just told her I loved her. She wasn't very talkative. Leonor wasn't any help, either. She said she got rid of her knife and clothes, though,” Celeste mutters, careful for anyone not to hear. Her eyes flit around as if still looking for someone. Looking for _me_.

“Good.”

They stand silently, watching as the crowd's chaos grows, the words “ _white lady_ ” floating in echoes in the air.

Eventually, however, as the day passes, the sky turning from shades of light blue to orange, to red, and the body is finally carted into a vehicle, the people slowly disperse, not wanting to stay around when night finally falls on Balete Drive.

When Leonor said she'd take care of the body, she did quite a sloppy job at it, running away at the first sign of trouble—namely, a car that happened to lose its way on the road. Luckily, she had a little help from me, whether she knows it or not.

The dark blankets the road, Balete Drive's street sign disappearing into the shadows. The moonlight shines on the Balete trees' misshapen branches, their gnarled roots paving the roadside. The orange lights flicker as the sound of tires on the pavement catches my attention.

I put a hand on my face, smearing the ever-present blood that stains it. I run my fingers against the smooth, white fabric of my dress and feel a sinister grin creep on my face as I watch the pale face of the driver speeding by, his knuckles tight and eyes panicked as he steps on the gas.

I chuckle as I let myself in their backseat, and see the blood drain from his face as our eyes meet in the rearview mirror. He breathes heavily, on the verge of tears, as I inch closer slowly, my stale breath in his ears, my bony fingers on his neck.

I smile.

Not exactly how I expected my story to be told, but effective nonetheless.

I've always wanted to be an urban legend.


End file.
